Wrexford frowned. “I can’t see how that has any relevance to Becton’s murder.”
“Nor can I,” said Sheffield. “I’m simply passing on what I’ve been told about Quincy—”
“Wait.” Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Hosack mentioned something about a botanist now working with Quincy on improving yield of American cotton plantations. I believe he said the fellow was a former army officer named Adderley, who tried to steal some specimens from the New Granada viceroy in Spanish America.”
“You’re right,” agreed the earl. “It’s a possible connection.” He pursed his lips. “And as Adderley is here in London attending the symposium, along with Quincy, Griffin may be able to find out more about him.”
“Adderley will be under no obligation to meet with Bow Street,” pointed out Charlotte.
“As we all know, there are other ways of getting information about people than to make a polite request,” he replied grimly.
Neither of them responded.
“Anything else?” he asked Sheffield.
“One other tidbit, though it’s not directly related to Quincy,” came the answer. “Another American was a passenger on the same ship that brought Quincy here from New York. A naval captain, granted permission to visit London despite the tensions between our two countries as a concession to the Royal Society and its cordial relations with American scientific societies.”
“He is part of the New York scientific delegation to the symposium?” asked Charlotte.
“Actually, he’s attending as the representative of the Philadelphia Botanical Society. And curiously enough, it seems that Samuel Daggett is a distant cousin of the country’s former president, Thomas Jefferson, and served for some time as his naval adjutant.”
“I believe Mr. Jefferson is a man known for his interest in science, as well as the arts and literature,” said Charlotte.
“He also showed a taste for fine wine and witty women during his time as American envoy to Paris,” remarked the earl dryly. “He’s now a private citizen. Are you implying he arranged for Becton’s murder in order to steal the formula for himself?”
Put that way, it sounded absurd. By all accounts, Jefferson was an honorable and much-admired man.
“It’s unlikely, but still, it’s a connection that can’t be ignored,” said Charlotte, though she knew she was grasping at straws.
“Perhaps Lady Cordelia will have learned something more substantial.” A note of apology shaded Sheffield’s voice. “I’ll keep making inquiries. Ships arrive every day from the other side of the Atlantic, so there’s always fresh news.”
Wrexford nodded, but on spotting Lord Bethany, the secretary of the Royal Society, making his entrance into the drawing room, he let out a reluctant sigh. “I had better go speak with Bethany and discuss how the Society intends to handle Becton’s death.”
Charlotte gave a wry grimace.
“I will counsel him to hold off on any mention of murder,” he went on. “Let the villain who committed it think his cleverness has fooled everyone. Hubris leads to making mistakes.”
* * *
“Let us hope that is so,” murmured Charlotte as the earl walked away. She couldn’t help but wonder whether she had committed an error in judgment by making the death known to the public. She had done so to make sure the authorities could not decide to turn a blind eye on the crime. The Royal Society would be happy to see the matter quietly buried, whether or not the killer was ever caught. But . . .
Looking up from her brooding, she caught Sheffield watching her in concern. But before he could speak, they were interrupted by Sir Robert, the dowager’s good-natured friend from the gala evening at the Royal Botanic Gardens.
“Ah, Lady Charlotte—there you are! Might I steal Her Ladyship away from you, sir?” he said to Sheffield, and then flashed a reproachful smile at her. “You must make amends for abandoning me at last night’s supper by coming and meeting a few of our visiting scholars from afar.”
“I would be delighted to do so,” she said.
Sheffield stepped aside, an inscrutable look flickering in his gaze. “Indeed, it’s an evening for convivial conversations, and mingling with friends, both old and new.”
Was that an oblique urging to step away from any further investigation of the murder? She understood his worries. Ye gods, she had them, too . . .
Sir Robert offered his arm, and together they rounded the table holding the punch bowl and joined a group of scholars engaged in what looked to be an animated discussion, German and English mixing with a smattering of Latin.
“Now, now—mind your language, gentlemen,” counseled Sir Robert. “There is a lady present.”
A reed-thin man, with a shock of dark hair greying at the temples and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles perched on his beaky nose, turned and clicked his heels together as he bowed. “Dankeschön,madam, for compelling us to be civilized in our disagreement over certain details of Linnaeus’s classification system.”
“Herr von Stockhausen believes he has created a more precise method,” murmured one of the Royal Society scholars, after the formal introductions were made. His voice held a note of thinly veiled skepticism.
